The Gun Runner (Mafia Made) by Scott Hildreth Page A

I said. “And, I know, he is.”
    “And your dad’s gonna shit too.” She took a drink and coughed as she swallowed. “Big bricks.”
    My father may be able to easily dismiss Michael as substandard because he wasn’t Italian, but I sure couldn’t. As far as I was concerned, he was perfect for me.
    I just needed to get my father to agree.

Chapter Ten
    Michael
    I motioned toward the road ahead of us. “Don’t turn here, turn on 23rd. Fredrick is one-way the other direction. It’ll let us pull up right behind the parking lot, and you can see everything from the street.”
    Cap turned off the turn signal and stepped on the gas pedal. “You got it, Boss.”
    Halfway down 23rd, he asked the inevitable. “You thinkin’ these Bulgarians are going to give us some trouble?”
    “I hope not.”
    “Why you got Lucky posted up across the street with eyes on the drop-off?”
    “Just being cautious.”
    He laughed a dry laugh. “When was the last time you went on a run?”
    I peered down Fredrick Avenue toward the scheduled drop-off point. “Don’t know.”
    “I do,” he said as he turned the corner. “You haven’t. Now, before I pull in here, what’re you thinkin’?”
    “I’m thinking these guys are unpredictable, we’ve got $200,000 in weapons, and they’re one of only a few of my customers who demand that they don’t pay in advance. So, we’re doing a $200,000 cash deal in a parking lot at night. You do the math. There’s no room for error. That’s what I think.”
    He slowed down as we approached the lot. “Sounds reasonable.”
    “It’s just...”
    I paused and grabbed my buzzing phone. “What’s it looking like, Lucky?”
    “Three Slavs in a Mercedes G wagon. Place is clean.”
    The parking lot where we were scheduled to do the drop-off was chosen by the customer. Based on the location and being under the cover of darkness, I believed we were exposed to minimal risk. In an old warehouse district with virtually no traffic on any of the side streets, the area minimized the possibility of being hijacked or surprised.
    An empty lot across the street was the perfect place for one of my employees to sit and observe the transaction. One could never be too careful on a $200,000 cash deal in the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse—especially at night.
    “Roger that. We’re turning in. You stand tight until the money changes hands.”
    “Roger that,” he said. “Standing by to stand by.”
    I hung up. “Lucky says the place is clean. Pull up beside the Mercedes.”
    As with most of my larger deliveries, I had rented a box truck and loaded it with the firearms. Typically used as residential moving vans, the vehicles received very little attention from onlookers, and the customer could simply take the vehicle and return it to the rental agency when they were finished unloading it.
    The parking lot was illuminated by overhead light poles, and the Mercedes SUV was parked directly under one of them. As the van came to a stop, I gave my instructions to Cap. “Stay in the vehicle, locked and loaded, until Lucky pulls in to extract us.”
    “Roger that.”
    I stepped out of the vehicle and approached the Mercedes. My point of contact, sitting in the rear seat, got out and gave a nod. A square-jawed six-foot-four Bulgarian, Svetli rarely laughed or cracked a smile for that matter.
    I nodded in return. “Svetli.”
    “Good evening, Tripp.”
    I patted my hand against the side of the van. “We’ve got all two hundred, in crates of ten. There’s two magazines for each weapon in the bottom of each crate.”
    He motioned for the passenger to get out. “We appreciate for you finding missing fifty.”
    Svetli had lived in the United States for one year, and communicating with him reminded me of the many scenes I had seen in action movies where the Russian played the bad guy. Always stone-faced and speaking with a distinct Slavic accent, mistaking him for a Russian would be easy.
    “You’re the